Title: The Misunderstanding
Author: Deborah Cummins
Email: deborahcummins @ comcast.net
Characters: K/S
Rating: NC-17
Summary: A classic case of two people misreading each other which leads to a nearly catastrophic conclusion.
DISCLAIMER: Paramount/Viacom. No infringement intended, no money being made.

The security guard was the first one they found. Lying on his back in a pool of blood, the man's chest was ripped open by what appeared to be a dozen knife wounds. His name was Thompson. He was twenty-two years old.

The captain of the Enterprise knelt beside the body, his hands clenched into tight fists. His chief medical officer crouched at his side, his face pale. Neither of the two men said anything.

"Captain?"

Kirk stood and turned toward his first officer. Spock aimed his tricorder toward the south. "Evidence of humanoid life forms, Sir. Could be the rest of the landing party."

Kirk met his gaze. Could be the landing party. More likely the natives of this place, the creatures who had killed Thompson. He pressed his lips together. "How far?"

"One point three kilometers."

Kirk began to walk. "Let's go. Carstairs, Evans, go to the west, flank that rise. Aronson, Osaka, go to the east. Stay together. Avoid being seen."

"Yes, Sir."

The men moved out. Kirk followed a direct course through the forest, his two senior officers at his side. He looked over at Spock. "How many do you read?"

"Seventeen."

The two men exchanged glances. The landing party, sent down eight hours before, had consisted of six. Dressed in native clothes, ordered to scout out the planet for a routine survey, the personnel had been eager to beam down. There had been jokes in the transporter room. The planet was lovely, a verdant paradise scented, the probes told them, with the odor of flowers and honey. He recalled that he hadn't been surprised at the light-hearted mood of the transportees. He had wanted to go himself.

His arm brushed up against Spock's and he felt the Vulcan stiffen. He was used to his empathic first officer reading his thoughts, sensing his moods. It had, after all, happened a thousand times before. But right now, for some reason, the Vulcan's protectiveness angered him. "I should have beamed down with them," he muttered darkly, his gaze straight ahead. "I might have been able to do something. And if I was killed, then I was killed. Period."

Spock pulled back as if struck and Kirk instantly regretted the harsh words. He began to turn toward his friend when one of the guards signaled him from atop the rise. Quickening his pace, he covered the distance between them, the words he had intended to say to Spock once again left unspoken.

***

The man sat at the far table, his back pressed against the wall, his gaze locked on the doorway. The bar was crowded, filled with revelers and drunks, prostitutes and those unwary few who had wandered in to escape the heat. Frequently, someone would stumble against the door, cutting off his view. When that happened, he would stand, his pose carefully casual, and move until his view was unobstructed once again.

A local woman, a two dollar a night whore if appearances meant anything, knocked a glass from her table. It hit the floor with a crash, shattering into a thousand pieces.

For an instant, silence descended over the room. Then someone began to laugh and the woman kicked the fragments under her table. The noise resumed, rapidly rising to equal or better its previous din.

The door opened. The man lifted his chin into the air, studying the stranger who had just stepped inside.

Tall, thin, wearing a brown robe and a long silk scarf around his neck, the newcomer met his gaze almost instantly. He reached up and loosened his scarf, throwing one end over his left shoulder.

The man sat down, watching as the stranger crossed the room and approached his table. He held the other man's gaze, but neither of the two spoke to one another.

The newcomer sat in the empty chair. Leaning forward, he folded his hands before him. "The weather is hot today," he said softly.

The native nodded. "Indeed. The skora blows in from the desert and brings the heat with it. It is always so during the month of Asomin."

Thick fingers disentangled and the other man spread his hands out onto the table before him. "Do you have it?"

Wordlessly, the native reached into his vest and pulled out a small, flat object wrapped in brown paper. He slid it across the table, glancing instinctively over his shoulder to see if anyone noticed.

The newcomer picked it up, slipping it into a leather pouch attached to his belt. He rose to his feet. "You have done well, Kresmal Hzor. Salahbikh will see that you are well rewarded."

The native smiled softly, an evil, mirthless smile that matched the one worn by his swarthy companion. "Praise be to Salahbikh."

The other man inclined his head at the familiar words, ones that he had heard a thousand times before. A chant that inextricably wove itself through his very life, spouted at countless indoctrination meetings, driving any shred of rebellion, of independent thought, away before it. 'Praise be Salahbikh,' the leaders would intone repeatedly, endlessly. 'Salahbikh will guide your way. Anything done in the name of Salahbikh is just. And right.'

A hapless child of refugees, he had been a victim of the twisted indoctrination since he was eight years old. And the years that other children spent learning mathematics and grammar, studying latitude and longitude, how to say 'please' and 'thank you' in a foreign tongue, this man had spent learning how to plant explosives, disassemble and conceal a high powered rifle in less than thirty seconds. He had been a good student. He was proud of what he could do. It gave meaning to his life.

Tying the scarf loosely around his neck, he dropped one hand to rest lightly against the pouch at his hip. "Good day to you, Kresmal," he whispered, despite the noise of his surroundings. "And may good fortune bless your life."

Turning away, he sauntered casually across the bar, pausing for a moment to eye the red-haired prostitute lounging against the barstool. The woman met his gaze and forced a smile across her face. He scowled at the invitation in her eyes. Soldiers of the faith did not have time for such things.

Pushing the heavy door open, the young man stepped out once again into the blazing Harappan sun.

***

The click of the log recorder sounded loud in the quiet of his quarters. Leaning forward, the captain rested his head in his hands. The report had been duly sent. 'Recommend planet Acharias III be declared off-limits for the foreseeable future. Natives are unprepared for extraterrestrial contact.'

He almost laughed. Unprepared. Off-limits. Such euphemisms, clinically describing a venture that had been unprofitable. The families of those six dead crewmembers would no doubt find little comfort in the words.

Reaching behind him, he rubbed his neck. The headache that threatened to split his very skull apart refused to go away and, after a moment, he gave up and let his arm fall back to the table.

"Damn." Rising to his feet, he arched his back, the image of his butchered men etched deeply into his mind. All gone. All six gone, rendered fatally vulnerable by a non-interference directive that forbade communicators and phasers.

And for what? To study a planet that was like a half billion others in the galaxy, filled with savages who tended to kill anything strange. For nothing. It had all been for absolutely nothing.

He shook his head. The movement made the headache grow worse but he found that he didn't care, that, in fact he welcomed it. A little shared agony for all the good it would do. Too bad it wouldn't make the dead rest any easier.

Moving to the bed, he eased himself down, his mind returning again to the ghastly sight of those murdered men. Since taking command of the Enterprise, he had seen a lot of changes, been through a lot of changes. But one thing remained the same. The loss of a crewman had always been the most difficult thing for him to bear. There were times, he admitted to himself, that he'd doubted if he could do it, doubted if he could send out another security guard or scouting party to what was quite probably certain death.

But he had done it. Time and again. Sent them out only to lose them to a warrior's arrow or a disrupter blast. Men and women. Blond and dark, tall and short. And young. They were always so young. My god, why did they always have to be so young? The average age of those people on the landing party was twenty-eight. The oldest was only forty.

Leaning back, he rested his head against the wall. He felt so tired, immensely tired. He'd sent men out to die before, had sent Spock out to die before. Why, then, did this time seem so much harder to accept, seem to drain his energy down to nothing. It wasn't as if he could have prevented any of it. There had been no warning, no indication of significant danger.

And that, of course, was the crux of it all, wasn't it? Because there never was. The worst disasters inevitably came on a warm summer's day. And all the starships in the galaxy couldn't do a whole hell of a lot to change that.

Kirk rolled his shoulder, groaning as the blood pounded behind his eyes with such force that he swore he could literally feel his skull expand.

The buzzer rang. The last thing he wanted right now was company, but, without a second's hesitation, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. Running his fingers through his hair, he wiped all evidence of pain from his face. "Come."

The door opened and he smiled at the familiar silhouette in the hallway. Maybe a little company right now wouldn't be such an unpleasant thing after all. "Come on in."

Spock stepped inside and gave him an appraising stare. "You are in pain," he stated flatly.

So much for Vulcan small talk. And for hiding the headache. He shrugged. "Rough day."

Spock moved to his side. "Losing a crewmember is always upsetting."

Again, the Vulcan's probing eyes searched his face. So open, so trusting, so full of affection and concern. There were times he swore he could lose himself in those eyes.

"Jim," Spock said softly, knowing immediately what was troubling him. "There was nothing you could have done to prevent what happened today."

"I know. I know." Extending his arm toward the chair, he managed a weak smile. "Have a seat."

Spock sat, his gaze never straying from Kirk's face. The captain slumped into the nearest chair, resisting the urge to rub his neck again. Today six of his crewmen had died. Tomorrow the Enterprise would resume her interrupted patrol, the day after, filling in as a last minute replacement for the ailing Potemkin she would shuttle a minor ambassador from one planet to the next.

One thing after another. Repetitious. Endless. Chasing your tail, isn't that the term, Kirk? he thought morosely. Going in circles. Going nowhere. He reminded himself of the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dike, a tiny figure of good in an ugly and evil universe. Or worse. A completely indifferent one.

It all seemed so utterly useless. And he found himself, much to his distress, wondering why he continued to toss bodies down that insatiable, indifferent maw. Why any of them bothered at all.

The captain closed his eyes. Right now the weight of his command threatened to crush him.

For a moment, they sat in silence. "Spock," he said at last, his voice very low. "Do you ever think about leaving the service?"

Spock's eyes widened with surprise. The captain's mood must be melancholy indeed for him to ask such a question. "Jim...?"

Kirk looked up. Spock's expression softened. "I did think of it on occasion, but have not for the last four years."

Some of the pain faded from the captain's eyes. The reminder that, whatever happened, he would not have to face it alone was a very welcome one right now. Ever so slightly, his spirits began to lift. God, Spock. Where would I be without you. "Thanks," he said aloud.

Straightening his back, he turned away, his gaze shifting to the far wall. A gentle, wistful smile touched his mouth. "You know what we could do if we did leave the service?" he asked, his mind picturing a scenario both men knew would never come to pass.

"Buy a small scout ship and contract out to search for rare earths, minerals. There's a big demand for experienced Starfleet pilots, I've heard. Can make a fortune in no time at all. Hell, between the two of us, we could be rich in a month. Just you and me, Spock, puttering around the galaxy with no one to worry about except ourselves..."

The words trailed off. Spock saw sadness fill those beautiful eyes yet again. "Erickson was only twenty years old," the captain whispered a moment later. "Did you know that?"

He refocused on his first officer's grim face. Spock knew. He mentally kicked himself on the backside for his thoughtlessness. Of course Spock knew. He knew every crewmember on this ship, probably had a complete mental file on every vanished face, every life cut off in its prime.

Kirk gave him a sad smile. "It's hard on you too, isn't it?"

Spock lowered his eyes. "Death, especially in those so young, is always a tragedy."

Yeah, Kirk thought. A tragedy. The only thing worse would have been if I'd lost you. That scares the living hell out of me. A whole lot more than the thought of losing the Enterprise.

The final words should have alerted him, warned him that his control was slipping. Living like a tumor in the deepest recesses of his mind, the words would have never found their way to the surface otherwise.

But they didn't warn him. And because they didn't, his life, Spock's life, was about to take an abrupt new turn.

Without conscious thought, Kirk stretched his arm out across the table and brushed his fingers lightly against the back of Spock's hand. The unnatural intimacy of the action, even more than the thought of a moment before, should have sent a red alarm blaring through his head loud enough to deafen him.

But the aimless drift of fate had already begun to shift directions and the only thought that came to James Kirk's mind right now lay in the inhuman heat of the Vulcan's skin. Nothing else.

Hot, he mused distantly, oblivious to the fact that everything he knew, everything he thought he knew, was about to change. Always feels so hot. Sometimes I forget how truly alien you are until I feel how hot your skin is.

His fingers traced a pattern against the alien flesh. The skin was not only hot to the touch, it was soft. Deceptively soft, almost like a baby's skin. How can it be, he wondered, that someone so strong could have skin so soft.

Abruptly, the realization of what he was doing struck him. Glancing up he saw a trace of puzzlement in the dark eyes. Smiling to cover his own embarrassment, he began to pull his hand away.

Suddenly, without warning, a stabbing pain tore through his forehead. He flinched, instantly blocking the involuntary reaction, hoping that Spock wouldn't notice.

Spock noticed. He slipped his hand out from under the captain's touch and stood up. "Allow me to help you alleviate your headache."

Kirk smiled up at him, wondering when it was that the Vulcan determined he had a headache. No matter. Spock read him like an open book anyway. Had for years. Thank god. He needed that intimacy, that empathy, more than even he realized.

"Okay, old friend." He leaned back as Spock moved to stand behind him. Draping his hands across Kirk's neck, he began a slow, soothing massage. The sensitive fingers found the cramped muscles with almost instinctive ease, working out the knots, bringing a soothing warmth into his entire body. The headache began to fade.

"That feels good," Kirk murmured as the tension melted under the Vulcan's touch. The effect was slightly magical. Stimulating. Almost painfully pleasant. With a part of his mind, he began to wonder if Spock were doing something more than just a simple massage, if this was some mysterious Vulcan technique of total relaxation and peace.

Closing his eyes, he tilted his head back to rest on Spock's chest, feeling the Vulcan's protectiveness, constant vigilance and support, surround him like a forcefield. He wanted to open his eyes to look up, knowing that Spock was watching him, but somehow he didn't have the strength.

He relaxed a bit more, sinking into the sensations, letting them carry him far away from his inner melancholia, from the death scene on the planet below that had spawned it.

What the captain of the Enterprise did not realize was that the death of six crewmen was not all that would take place tonight. Because his first officer had caught him in an uncharacteristic moment of weakness. He was tired. More than a little depressed. His resistance was lower than it had been in years. And, legendary reputation or no, James T. Kirk was, after all, only a human being. Even he had his limits.

Strong, elegant fingers continued to work their magic, bringing such a calmness to his battered spirit that he felt as if he were floating ten feet off the ground. Every muscle in his body seemed to relax at once and he swore that he could actually feel the suffocating weight begin to lift. For the first time in hours, a measure of peace filled his mind, the soothing comfort of his friend's presence seeping into his very cell structure like a narcotic.

But, like a narcotic, that comfort undermined what was left of his strength of will and his thoughts began to flow into areas he had never permitted them to go before. At least not when his empathic first officer was standing two inches away.

He wasn't even aware it was happening. Rolling his head from side to side, he rested it more heavily against that hard chest. A sound filled his ears. A thrumming sound. The beating of Spock's heart, hammering with impossible speed beneath the tunic, the beat so rapid that it almost sounded like one continuous roar. He could feel the lean muscles lying just above it, sensed the slow, even motion of his breathing. Huge lungs. Thin air. The wonders of diversity. My god, you're beautiful.

An image began to form in his mind. A beach. Shore leave six months ago on Muranus III. They'd been on patrol for months and most of the crew was there, spread out on a six mile stretch of sand. The sun was warm, the water crystal blue. It was just before noon.

He had stepped out from the changing room and there, standing not ten feet away, was Spock. Clad only in swimming trunks with a towel draped over one shoulder, the Vulcan was, quite simply, stunning. Long, powerful legs, flat stomach, wide chest with all of that magnificent chest hair. Funny that I'd find that such an erotic thing, he thought, recalling with amusement that he hadn't been the only one so captivated by the sight. A dozen or so crewmembers, male and female both, were lounging nearby, trying very hard not to stare. Most were not very successful.

Spock had turned back to him then, given him that half-smile of his and he had to make a mad dash for the water before his erection became inescapable to everyone, Spock's puzzled gaze following him as he ran.

His mind continued to float, the strong fingers easing tension from his body, cutting his thoughts loose. The massage was slowing now, but the captain was caught up in the image within his mind and he did not notice. He almost felt as if he were dreaming.

It wasn't simply the sight of the Vulcan's body that he found so enticing. There was that voice. God, he loved the sound of that voice. So deep, almost sounding like a growl at times. But for all its baritone, it was not a harsh or unpleasant sound. Rather, it possessed a peculiar combination of strength and gentleness, a kindness and compassion that so few of his crew ever heard.

Images tumbled into his mind one after the other. Perfect diction. Shiny dark hair with never a strand out of place. That wonderful dry humor of his. And those beautiful hands. Many a time he had seen Spock reach out to hit a sensor on his panel and marveled at those beautiful hands. Long, elegant, aristocratic. Sensuous. Most of all, they were sensuous. He frequently caught himself wondering what it would feel like to have those fingers touch him, caress him. He had heard once that Vulcans could do marvelous things with their hands, create sensations that were beyond the scope of human comprehension. Something to do with touch telepathy and sensory nerve endings. They were the secrets, it was whispered, that gave strength and durability to what on the surface seemed a sterile, almost detached Vulcan marriage. Hidden fire. Buried skills. The ability to turn even an ice woman like T'pring into an insatiable temptress.

Dear god, he wondered. What in the world could it be?

The thought had occurred to him before, but it was almost too intense and, except in his dreams, he had never permitted himself to dwell on it. Until now.

The throbbing in his groin grew more insistent, pulsing with each beat of his heart. Unconsciously, he shifted his weight as the blood flowed into his penis, swelling it until it pressed painfully against his pants.

Shit, Kirk, he thought, snapping back to reality and realizing that Spock, standing behind him, touching him, couldn't help but notice the erection. Couldn't help but sense the reason for it.

The massage, he abruptly realized, had stopped. He opened his eyes to find Spock staring down at him. There was a look in the Vulcan's eyes that he had never seen before, but one that he recognized immediately. Fear. Pure and simple.

Oh, Christ. He smiled. If Spock had picked up on his thoughts, there was no point in denying them. So he did the next best thing. He pretended the entire thing never happened.

"Thanks. Headache's almost gone."

The long fingers began the massage once again. When the captain was concerned, 'almost gone' was clearly unacceptable. And yet, there was a wall between them now, a barrier that had formed abruptly ten seconds before. Kirk closed his eyes and leaned his head back. But, this time, he was careful to avoid touching Spock's chest.

Five minutes later, the headache was finally gone, but what replaced it was arguably worse. Spock pulled his hands away. He was clearly uncomfortable. "Captain," he said, slipping back into their formal speech. "I trust that you are feeling better."

Hell no. The thought flashed through his head in an instant. Telepathy or no, Spock would not be allowed to hear it.

He smiled, his expression carefully neutral. "Yeah. Thanks."

Spock moved quickly toward the door. "In that case, I will bid you good night." He hesitated, his eyes filled more with confusion now than fear. Kirk rose to his feet, bitterly berating himself for the unforgivable lapse. But it had occurred. And Spock was quite clearly aware of it. There was, therefore, only one thing to do. Look the issue squarely in the eye. And lie.

Clenching his teeth until his jaw hurt, he smiled. "Sorry if I embarrassed you," he said, indicating his rapidly deflating erection with a tilt of the head. "These things happen sometimes to humans when they become emotionally drained. A distraction that the mind employs as a form of self protection." Even to his own ears, the excuse sounded paper thin and he wondered briefly if Spock would bother to look it up.

The Vulcan stiffened at the words, and, for an instant, he could have sworn that he saw disappointment in the alien eyes. But, before he could focus in on it, it was gone.

Spock stepped out into the hallway. "I understand, Captain. It has been a most difficult day. The cause was justified."

He paused, seemed on the verge of saying something. Kirk forced the smile to stay on his face. His hands were clasped so tightly behind his back that he half-expected the bones to break.

A moment of uncomfortable silence passed. Then Spock inclined his head, an unreadable look on his face. "Good night, Sir."

Turning away, he disappeared down the corridor.

The door slid back. Kirk stood, staring at its blank surface for a moment. Pulling his hands apart, he ran his fingers through his hair, painfully aware of the fact that they were noticeably shaking. Letting his arms fall to his side, he walked slowly back to the bed and fairly collapsed onto it. "Damn you, Kirk," he mumbled. "What are you trying to do? See how fast he can draw up his request-for-transfer papers?"

Rolling over on his side, he kicked off his boots and pulled the blanket up to his chin. The headache that Spock had driven away was back, slicing through his forehead like a blade of ice.

He closed his eyes, knowing that the sleep he so desperately needed would elude him. Again.

***

The green scarf had been discarded a block away from the Katiran bar and, as Ashur Chagar approached the loading terminal, the only thing remaining to identify him was the brown caftan that he wore.

The dock was crowded, a thousand people milling around searching for their flights, awaiting arrivals, picking a pocket or two. Security guards stood, scattered evenly through the crowd, their guns balanced alertly on their forearms, their eyes continually scanning the room.

The young man repressed an instinctive jolt of nervousness. There was nothing about him that would make him stand out in this crowd. His face was unknown to these men, his clothing identical to that of nearly everyone else in the terminal. In the searing climate of the Fayum central plain, the long, flowing caftan was a practical, albeit unflattering, form of dress, one adopted on a half million planets for the same identical reasons. Men, women, children; they all wore it, rendering what would otherwise have been a scene of colorful diversity into a universal dreariness of browns and blacks.

A voice blared out over the loudspeaker. 'Shuttle 176 for Alisar, Hattusus and Manora to begin boarding in five minutes on Platform 24. Right Concourse.'

A dozen or so people began to move toward the right, following the neon arrows that pointed the way. He moved into step with them, wishing that the crowd were larger, knowing that his chances of being singled out were far less in a large group. But the three planets that were the destination of the commonplace and rather drab Shuttle 176 were singularly uninteresting and attracted few travelers.

Two heavily armed security guards stood at the head of the corridor, checking documents, searching for contraband. He handed one of the men his passport. The soldier scanned it carefully, then gave it back to him without a word.

Resisting the urge to lay a hand against the pouch concealed in his tunic, Chagar moved casually down the hallway. He had taken barely a dozen steps when a piercing cry rang out from the corridor behind him. The two guards jerked their heads up, but stayed at their posts, watching alertly as a black robed fanatic was wrestled to the ground a hundred yards away, screaming out condemnations of the Federation, the governor of Katir, the elections now less than eight days away.

The man was brought under control and dragged away, the dozen people standing in a circle around him watching for a moment before moving quietly on. The guards waited until the man was out of sight before turning back to give one another a look of angered resignation. Chagar paused, fumbling with his passport, listening surreptitiously as the two men spoke to each other.

"Be glad when this election business is over with and things settle down again," one muttered to his companion, blunt fingers tapping nervously against the barrel of his gun.

The other man nodded. "I hear there was a full-scale riot in Orecarr this morning. Asir's men out running through the Tenom district screeching about rejecting the vote, saying that the Federation's nothing but a bunch of godless aliens."

"A pack of murderers, if you ask me. The whole lot of 'em. And that bastard Asir, he's the worst of the bunch. Hiding behind those women. If he had the courage to come out into the open, I'd put a bullet right between his eyes."

The second soldier laughed. "He doesn't want to get killed, Thorsan. That's what his liberation army is for."

The man he called Thorsan would not be placated. "Damned coward, that's all he is. Nothin' but a damned coward."

Chagar stiffened his spine, the words of the blasphemers echoing through his head. Gritting his teeth, he savagely drove them from his mind. Words of the devil. That's all they were. Words of the devil. If there was one thing in this universe that he knew beyond question, it was that Sukkam Asir was no coward. He was a saint, a prophet from heaven. One who heard the word from on high, direct, it was said, from Salahbikh himself. He was their leader, the driving force behind their revolution. The way of the future.

The thought ignited that spark of fanatical fire in the young man's chest and he dismissed the profanity of the soldiers. They would pay the price for their sacrilege as all unbelievers paid. With their lives when the revolution came at last. And then, for all eternity in the netherworld of the perpetually damned.

As Ashur Chagar climbed the loading ramp to Shuttle l76, he allowed the thought of the soldiers' inescapable torment to console him, sensing the power of the Almighty flood into his veins once again, strengthening him, comforting him, stilling his inner turmoil. Enabling him to stand straight and tall as befitted a soldier of the faith. And do what must be done. For Asir. For Salahbikh. For the kingdom of god.

The outer doors closed. A moment later, the ship began to lift off. Eighteen hours from now, he would land in Manora. And begin his rendezvous with destiny. Make the first step in a blow that would cause ripples from one end of this star system to the other. Set in motion the events that would bring down a mighty starship and the governor's hope for a Federation alliance with it.

Eighteen hours. The past ten years of his life had been nothing but preparation for the events of the next eighteen hours. And Ashur Chagar was ready. He would not fail.

The young man pressed his face against the glass, watching as the ship gained altitude and the horizon spread out before him in a graceful arch. Right at this moment, his chest puffed out with religious fervor, his gaze on the earth beneath him, he felt as if he were unique in the universe, a man singled out by god. Basking in the light of Divine Favor.

The truth, of course, was that he was a dishearteningly familiar figure in the galaxy, embodying a simple lust for violence that cloaked itself in the guise of religious activism. He came in every color of the spectrum, preached every conceivable philosophy, spoke of nationhood and genocide as if they were inseparable from one another. He firebombed parades and kindergartens, murdered policemen from a passing car, left a never ending supply of widows and orphans in the world. And somehow convinced himself that, through it all, he was only doing god's will.

But, of course, he wasn't. He was doing something very different. He was quite simply carving a place for himself, showing an indifferent world that he existed, that he was there. That they had reason to fear him. Using violence where others used the power of speech, the strength of the written word or the canvas.

His was not the perfect ideology, to be sure, the ideal way to live. But it was better than following the route of so many among the disenfranchised, the downtrodden. Disappearing among the huddled masses of the poor, vanishing amidst the squalor, the cardboard houses like a ghost that had never been at all.

For Ashur Chagar, it was good enough.

***

The firepot was the only light in the room. Burning with a tiny yellow flame, it cast a feeble halo of gold around its surroundings, doing little to dispel the darkness.

Spock knelt before it, within the circle of light. His legs were folded beneath him, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes closed.

Forty minutes passed in absolute silence. Then, abruptly the Vulcan rose to his feet and, hitting the sensor, dialed up the lights. Clasping his hands behind his back, he began to pace.

The meditative chant would elude him tonight, just as it had eluded him so many times before. He was used to it in a way. More nights than he cared to remember had been spent endlessly pacing the length of his quarters.

But this time, something had changed. Always before, the inner war had been with himself; an anguished monologue, spoken to the silent walls, beyond the hearing of his human companions.

Now, however, everything was suddenly very different. For tonight he had felt a response from the captain. And he had no idea how to deal with that.

One part of his mind urged him to respond. He is your friend, it said. He understands you. He knows you. You know him. You love...

The pacing abruptly stopped. Spock turned toward the door, allowing himself for the briefest moment to hope that it could be possible.

But then another voice intruded, one that sounded suspiciously like his father, berating him for what was perceived as weakness. You are a Vulcan, it said. Behave as one. Show respect for what you are. Do not shame your people.

Do not shame your people. A single sentence that could sum up his entire life. Ever since his earliest memories, that lesson had been hammered into his head. Stern words, piercing stares. Silent disapproval. Thou shalt not act like a human. Humans were illogical creatures. Unpredictable, uncontrollable, emotional. Inferior. A hidden word, an ugly word. But one that had followed him all the days of his life.

Spock stiffened. It made no difference what he did. Even if he were more Vulcan than Surak himself, the Elders would have rejected him for his tainted blood. Twice, his sensitive ears had picked up the sour voice of T'pau refer to him with the words 'bad blood.' Even now, nearly thirty years later, he could hear the words as clearly as if they were spoken yesterday. 'The boy has bad blood.'

Spock closed his eyes. He had tried. The ancient gods of Vulcan knew how he had tried. Years, decades of effort. Repress. Deny. Devote oneself to logic. Show nothing. Feel nothing. Become as stiff and unreachable as a brick wall. One of his fellow cadets at Starfleet Academy, thinking he was out of earshot, had said that once. He, of course, had heard. The words hurt, but he could not, after all, deny the truth.

During those lonely years, messages continued to come from his father, pointed reminders that he was a representative of his people. That he must act as such. That he must be the ideal Vulcan.

The messages did not go unheard. He continued to work, cutting off every trace of human emotion with surgical precision, trying pathetically to disprove T'pau's slurs. And, during his time at the Academy, he felt he had made considerable progress. Soon he would be able to go home and mingle freely with his people, would no longer be a source of shame for his family. The stigma 'half-breed' would not trail behind him everywhere he went.

The delusion followed him through graduation, through his assignment to science vessels and scout ships. Through his posting on the Enterprise.

And then everything came crashing down around his feet like so much broken glass. All those years of work were torn to shreds in less than a day. Captain Pike was promoted to a desk job.

He met Jim.

Spock opened his eyes, focusing on the flame that wavered and flickered before him.

And seeing nothing but the face that he loved so much. The very sight of him nearly tore Spock's heart in two. A Vulcan cannot love. Truth number one. A Vulcan cannot love a human. Truth number two. Remember who you are. Stand tall. Represent your people. Do not act like a human.

Everything was turned upside down. He couldn't deny his love, nor could he speak of it. There were times when he thought he was losing his mind. If he didn't love the captain so much, he would have fled the intolerable situation long ago.

But he didn't flee. He could no more leave Kirk's side than he could exist without breathing. If his mood hadn't been so black, the irony might have amused him. The cause of the suffering was the lure that kept calling him back, kept him tied to the captain's side as surely as if he were bound with a thousand chains.

So he stayed. For four years. And repressed the sorrow, the pain, watching the captain seduce women by the score, fall in and out of love, turn to him for help and consolation before delving once again into another relationship. Edith, Miramanee, Shahna, Lenore, Helen, Rayna. The list seemed endless.

And through it all, he had been silent, deriving a peculiar satisfaction at the fact that Kirk suspected nothing. At that, at least, he had been successful.

Walking back to the meditation alcove, Spock lowered himself down once again. Slowly, he began the chant, repeating the words over and over, trying to still the tension in his chest, the turmoil in his soul. He couldn't deal with what happened tonight. So he did what he had been doing all of his life.

He buried it, smothered it in rejection and denial. Kirk didn't love him, at least not in the way he wanted. What he had felt in the captain's quarters an hour ago was nothing but wishful thinking. Humans became sexually aroused for no reason at all. A thought, a feeling, a need to stretch out and feel warmth for a moment was enough to bring on an erection. He had seen it before, seen the captain do it before. What occurred an hour ago, despite Kirk's rather feeble excuses about exhaustion, meant nothing. The very last thing he should do was respond. In the end, that would only drive the captain away. And that thought, Spock could not bear.

Gritting his teeth, First Officer Spock closed his mind to that which he could not have, devoting himself to the chant with ruthless determination.

Fifteen minutes later, a hint of calmness returned to his mind, a cool, empty calmness, but one with which he was very familiar. A half an hour later, his breathing evened out. In forty-five minutes, he was well within the healing trance.

He stayed this way for the duration of the night. When the morning cycle began again, he rose and made his way silently to the dining hall. The captain was there, but Kirk did not see him. Spock took one look at the human's back and, turning on one heel, fled to the bridge. Meditative chant or no, he didn't think he could face James Kirk just yet.

***

The woman sat before the table, studying the microcircuit with interest. The panel, less than three inches on a side, was studded with an array of chips, electronically created sensors and lines of conducting tunnels, so small as to be virtually invisible to the naked eye.

"Excellent." She looked up. "It appears to be excellent. And will fit within the class five elemental controls perfectly. No one will notice its introduction within the circuits."

The stocky man who sat at her side was not smiling. She searched his face, saw trouble in his eyes. "What is it, Sukkam Asir?"

At her question, the eyes became narrow slits. The man swore under his breath, his face dark with rage. "You have not heard then? I had thought the ambassador might have told you."

Her eyes narrowed to match his own. "No, Sukkam. I have heard nothing new."

The man clenched his thick hands together. "There may be a problem with your mission. The Potemkin will not be conducting you and Valerian to Harappa."

She stiffened her back, sensing disaster in the man's tone. What ship will we be on?" she asked, her voice low.

"The Enterprise."

The young woman felt her heart skip a beat. The risk her assignment entailed, she well knew, had just increased geometrically. The computer expertise of the first officer of the Enterprise was known far beyond the inner circles of Starfleet Command.

Sukkam Asir met her gaze. "We cannot abort the mission, Mesila. We need a major disruption, something that will throw the entire election into chaos. And this ship must be it. There is no other."

Mesila Siwan nodded. She knew. The timing had been so perfect that, had she been a mindless fool like Ashur Chagar, she would have believed it was due to divine intervention.

But Siwan was not a fool. She knew the timing was due solely to blind luck. A lecherous official at Starfleet Command's regional headquarters who, unfortunately, took the wrong woman to his bed. A stolen microcircuit as payment to cover it up. A starship flying into the Harappan skies to bolster a governor's lobbying efforts. And a spectacular explosion that would blow the governor and his hopes right out of the water.

And there was, of course, the most important factor of all. Siwan herself. Infiltrated into an ambassador's entourage eight months before, she too, had simply been in the right place at the right time. Gifted with the intelligence and skill to learn her task on such short notice, she found herself at the crux of everything. The mover. The manipulator. Someone with the fate of an entire galaxy in her hands.

It was where Siwan had wanted to be for as long as she could remember. And she had no intention of letting anyone get in her way. Even someone as formidable as the renowned first officer of the Enterprise.

Straightening her back, she pocketed the priceless circuit and rose to her feet. "I must get back to the compound before I am missed."

The man nodded his head gravely. "Good luck to you, Mesili Siwan and may Salahbikh bless in your efforts."

She repressed the smile that threatened to cross her face. Salahbikh had been nothing but a scruffy, rather bloodthirsty trader who realized that there were easier ways to make a fortune than haggling with old ladies at the marketplace. She knew the truth of it, as did the man sitting before her. God had very little to do with the ways of the world. And nothing at all with the forging of empires. Even religious ones. Salahbikh had understood that eight centuries ago. Sukkam Asir knew it now. And so did she.

Giving her revered leader one final nod, she turned and left the room without another word.

The captain of the Enterprise sat in his command chair. His shift was almost over and he was restless. His stomach growled. McCoy had put him on another diet. The salad he'd eaten at lunch time lasted for about five minutes. By two o'clock he was hungry. By five he was starved.

Turning his head, he looked over at the science station. Hunger, he knew, was not the real cause for his unease.

Spock had been dodging him all day. Kirk was well aware that he had gone out of his way to avoid him at lunch. And breakfast. For years, they'd eaten together. The fact that the Vulcan had suddenly elected to change that was disturbing.

And he suspected that he knew exactly why. The memory of his rebellious erection of the night before was seared into his memory. As was the shock and dismay on Spock's face. The Vulcan was unnerved by his reaction, was no doubt repelled by it also. The image it couldn't help but bring to mind, of the two of them in bed together, kissing, fondling, making love to one another, must have been profoundly distressing. Vulcan men simply didn't do such things. Not with each other, at least not in many centuries. And certainly not with a human.

Spock. Withdrawn. Dignified. 100% Vulcan. 110% Vulcan. Making love to a human. A human male. And his commanding officer on top of that.

Hopeless. Kirk's spirits hit the floor. It was clearly hopeless, a delusion. He stiffened his body, pushing the fantasy from his mind with ruthless determination. If there was one thing he always prided himself in, it was his ability to face reality.

And right now, James T. Kirk was certain he was looking reality straight in the eye.

Don't mess up a good thing, he thought to himself severely. What happened last night was bad enough but Spock can be pretty na•ve at times. Maybe he believed your stupid little lie and will let it pass. At least you'd better pray he believed it.

At the edge of his vision, he saw the Vulcan straighten, hit a half dozen buttons on his panel one after another. He sat down and programmed something into the computer, then stood and leaned forward to peer into the viewer once again, long fingers resting lightly on the locator dial, legs spread widely apart. The light caught in his hair, giving it a dazzling blue cast. So soft, Kirk thought sadly, wanting more than anything else to run his fingers through that beautiful hair. Like spun satin.

Leaning back in his chair, he allowed himself the luxury of looking. That, at least, could do no harm. After all, Spock was totally oblivious of the effect he was creating.

Despite his somber mood, Kirk couldn't keep a gentle smile from his face. Oblivious was hardly the word for it. Many times he had seen the open stares female crewmembers would give his unsuspecting first officer as they passed his station; their gazes locked on his backside, traveling up and down his legs and hips. The lust in their eyes was on occasion startling, but in truth, it didn't surprise him. Spock cut a striking figure. Lean and elegant, like a fine thoroughbred. Dark, sleek...

"Captain?"

He nearly jumped from his chair at the unexpected word. Turning back, he quickly masked his surprise as his chief engineer moved to his side. "I'm relieving you, Sir." The Scotsman smiled.

Damn it, Kirk. Get your mind on the job. He grinned. "Thanks, Scotty. She's all yours."

Rising to his feet, he walked to the science station, wondering with every step what he would say when he got there.

Reaching the railing, he leaned against it. Spock turned around. He smiled. "I'm starved. Care to go down and get something to eat?"

Spock hesitated for an instant, then shook his head. "No, thank you, Captain. I was just about to recalibrate my sensors. I shall eat with the next shift."

Kirk's smile fell. Spock clearly saw the disappointment in his eyes and that impenetrable Vulcan facade began to crumble into dust. For a moment, he tried to shore it up, hold it together, but he never could deny the captain anything and after a moment he gave up trying. "Very well," he whispered. "I can do it later."

Spock stood. Kirk climbed the steps in one stride and together, the two men crossed the bridge and entered the turbolift. The doors closed.

For a moment, they rode in silence. The captain gave Spock a quick look. The Vulcan was nervous, although it took someone with Kirk's experienced eye to notice it. His breathing was a bit more rapid than usual, his gaze fixed a bit more intensively on the turbolift doors.

"Spock?"

The Vulcan turned toward him. "I'm sorry if I...embarrassed you last night. I didn't mean to."

Spock's expression did not change. Quick, Kirk, he thought desperately. You'd better come up with a lie he'll believe. You're losing him.

He smiled. "Actually, what happened wasn't because I was tired. The fact was...I was thinking about Aleen Carmilan. Do you know who she is?"

Spock nodded, repressing the jolt that traveled up his spine. He knew. A lieutenant from botany, transferred over some weeks ago from the Yorktown. Her interest in the captain was known to everyone on board the ship.

Kirk arched his back, his hands resting casually on his hips. "Well, I was thinking about taking a walk down to her quarters. I felt depressed about the men and thought it would be good for me to get my mind onto something else. I saw the lieutenant yesterday while I was heading for breakfast and she invited me down for a late night get-together, so..." He glanced up, breathing a silent sigh of relief. Finally, a story Spock couldn't help but believe. "I thought I'd take her up on her offer. And then when you started that massage, my mind began to wander, you know...picturing..."

He hesitated, looking into that placid face. Willing Spock to say something. Anything.

Spock was silent. And right now, the captain of the Enterprise would have been wise to follow his example.

But he didn't. He continued talking. "After you left, I changed my mind and didn't go. Just felt too tired all of a sudden." Unconsciously, he began drumming his fingers against his legs. Lying to Spock left a bad taste in his mouth. But if the Vulcan was worried about the direction of his sexual preferences, it was best to set him straight. Even if what he told him was not the truth.

"Think I will go tonight though, see if the offer's still good. I haven't been to bed with a woman in ages. I owe it to myself, don't you think?"

Spock's heart cracked neatly down the middle. The tiny glimmer of hope that lingered forlornly in the back of his mind, that all the Vulcan controls in the universe could not completely smother, flickered and went out.

None of it showed on his face. "In Humans," he intoned, "emotional/sexual release is important in order to maintain a healthy ego structure." His voice was so bland he almost sounded like an android.

Kirk gave him a warm smile. He felt about as low as a Denebian slime devil.

The rest of the trip was spent in silence. The meal that followed was an uneasy one and both men were glad when it was over.

They separated at the dining room door and did not see one another for the remainder of the night

***

The Harappan ambassador to Manora sat before her mirror, pulling a thousand pins from her hair. The hour was late and she was tired. Another day of pointless festivities that began at dawn and lasted until nearly midnight. "Thank the gods," she mumbled wearily, shaking her head and sending her hair cascading down her shoulders, "tomorrow we go home, Samarra."

She heard a movement behind her and felt a hand reach up to smooth the hair against her back. She smiled. Where would she be without her friend at her side, she wondered. A diplomat's life was, in a way, a lonely one. The days were filled with people, events, gatherings, and yet one had to distance oneself somewhat from the natives. Valerian's existence here had been a rather bleak and isolated one until she found Samarra Uqaid among the minor staff members recently transferred in from home. The two women hit it off almost immediately. Within a matter of weeks, they had become virtually inseparable.

Tilting her head back, she looked up into those gray-green eyes. "Are you looking forward to the trip, my friend?"

Her companion's smile matched her own. "Yes, my lady. I yearn to see the stars of home. And," she added, a look of feigned severity crossing her face, "you have worked yourself much too hard lately. You need to rest."

Valerian rolled her shoulder. "I know," she murmured. "I'm looking forward to those two days on the Enterprise. Nothing to do but lie around, read..." Her eyes brightened as another, more interesting possibility came to mind. "I hear that the captain of that ship is supposed to be quite something. You know..." she cupped her hands together and held them a foot away from her groin.

The woman who was known to her as Samarra Uqaid laughed. "These humans, they do make much of their physical endowments."

Valerian chuckled. "You think it's true, then?" she teased.

Samarra shrugged, her expression friendly and open, her eyes filled with just a hint of mischief. "Your skills at seeing beneath the surface are well known, my lady. Perhaps you will be able to tell."

Valerian laughed, oblivious to the hidden sarcasm in the reply. Reaching up, she grasped one of the younger woman's hands within her own. "Tomorrow, Samarra. We will know then, eh?"

For a split second, her mind on the challenge soon to be upon her, Mesila Siwan made a serious mistake. She allowed a glint of the fanatics' fire to show in her eyes, mingling with her facade of gentle companionship in a strange, unearthly combination.

But Valerian, leaning back against her chair, relishing the peace and quiet she had longed for all day, had closed her eyes an instant before. And she did not see it.

***

Lieutenant Aleen Carmilan was tired. She had spent the night before cataloging botanical specimens from Acharias III, busy work really to occupy her mind. The captain, much to her chagrin, had not sought her out. She had let him know, in body language and in words, just what he could expect if he dropped by her quarters for a little after hours entertainment. She knew of his reputation. The fact that he hadn't taken her up on her offer was disappointing, to say the least.

Yawning, she turned a corner and nearly crashed head-on into First Officer Spock. The Vulcan's silent step took her totally by surprise and she squealed and jumped back, nearly stumbling over her own feet in the process. Spock came to an abrupt halt and stood, his posture as stiff as a steel girder, silently looking down at her. His face remained impassive, but somehow she felt as if she were being mentally stripped to the bone.

Her skin flushed a deep scarlet. "Sorry, Sir," she stammered. "I didn't hear you coming."

"It is all right, Lieutenant. I was preoccupied. I should have heard your approach."

There was something peculiar in his voice, something almost frightening. If she didn't know better, she would have sworn he was about to punch her in the mouth.

Glancing up, she saw one eyebrow disappear beneath the bangs. "You look tired," he stated flatly. The tone, if anything, became even darker.

Without realizing it, she took a step backward. "Yes...I was up all night cataloging plant specimens."

"Really."

No inflection. She met his gaze. And realized that he did not believe her.

Her embarrassment abruptly doubled. "Yes, Sir...we received some fascinating plant species from the planet, types never seen before." She looked longingly down the corridor, wishing that the Vulcan would leave, let her go. She dared not walk away without his permission, but, still, his presence was becoming very disturbing.

He tilted his head to one side and searched her face. His expression began to change, the sharp undercurrent of malevolence turning now to one of confusion.

But still, he said nothing, just continued to look down at her. Carmilan began to fidget. The sensation of being eviscerated had vanished. Now she simply felt as if she were standing stark naked in the corridor.

The Vulcan abruptly stiffened, apparently sensing her unease. "Of course, Lieutenant. Good day."

Clasping his hands behind his back, he began to walk away, his stride slow and measured, his mind obviously far away. She watched him go, her thoughts in a state of total confusion. Something had just occurred and she had no idea what it was. He said one thing and meant a hundred more, thought a thousand more.

But one fact was very obvious, although she had no idea really why she was so certain about it. He had obviously thought she'd spent the night with the captain. And that forbidding aura had vanished once he'd realized that she had not.

Aleen Carmilan suddenly found herself very thankful that Captain Kirk had not taken her up on her offer after all.

***

Commander Spock sat on the edge of his bed, his gaze locked on his intertwined fingers. Despite the soundproof walls, his sensitive ears easily picked up the increasing sounds from the corridor outside. Footsteps, the multiplying number of voices. Occasional laughter.

The time was 0757. The morning shift was about to begin. He was due on the bridge in two minutes and thirty-seven seconds. And, for the second night in a row, he had not slept at all during the past eight hours.

His fingers twisted nervously against one another. Uncharacteristic reaction. Vulcans do not get nervous. Vulcans do not lose control. Vulcans do not prowl the corridors all night long like some kind of savage, caged animal and then, when confronted with a lieutenant from botany who had the misfortune to lust after the captain, Vulcans do not feel the urge to throw said crewman through the nearest bulkhead.

He squeezed his eyes shut and wondered briefly if he was having a nervous breakdown. Two nights before, his ability to rein in his emotions was paper thin, but, with more effort than he cared to admit, he had somehow managed to master it. His attempts last night, however, were ineffective, pathetically ineffective. Useless. A barren, wasted effort. The silence of his quarters only seemed to mock the discord within his mind and, after a few moments, it had driven him away, to walk as the captain walked when he was disturbed. Pace the ship. Check every corridor and storage room. It was a big vessel, but with his long stride, he had covered every square foot of it. If nothing else, the fruitless task had filled the empty hours.

Spock took a deep breath. Now his controls were virtually nonexistent, the pitiful mastery of the night before nothing but an aching memory. Even the realization that he would be late for start of shift failed to shake him from his inner paralysis.

Everything in his Vulcan heritage and training warned him of his precarious emotional state, cautioned him to insulate himself, to transfer off the Enterprise if necessary in order to protect himself. 'You are too vulnerable,' the inner voice said. 'Too vulnerable. What happened in his quarters two days ago has seriously undermined your controls. And every day it has gotten worse. You must physically separate yourself from him now. He is a threat to everything that you are. That you have striven all of your life to be.'

Familiar words. Familiar arguments, ones that he had used again and again when his shields were weak, when his sorrow threatened to overwhelm him.

But somehow, for reasons he would never really understand, the words sounded different today. Empty. Hollow. Almost as if they were scorning him, taunting him with their very barrenness.

He paused, raising his eyes to study the ancient carved figure before him. He had striven all of his life to reach that elusive goal. To become a creature totally devoted to logic, nonviolence, intellectual and moral advancement.

But is that what he had truly accomplished? Or had he simply perverted it, spent his life chasing a specter, turning his existence into one of sterility and loneliness. Isolated. Apart. Always fated to stand on the outside and watch others experience happiness, fulfillment.

'Go to him.' From the depths of his being, another voice crept into his thoughts. A weak voice, hoarse from nonuse, one that he rarely allowed out into the light of day. 'Don't be a fool,' it whispered. 'Vulcan was never a home to you. The only place you ever belonged was here, at his side. You love him. You have for years. Don't hide from it anymore. Denying reality is not the Vulcan way.'

The words were in English, the argument logical. He almost smiled at the irony.

Images began to replace the words. So many memories. So much history they had shared. The captain holding his hand when he lay injured in the sickbay. Ready and willing to blast two natives with a phaser burst, prime directive or no, when Spock lay helpless, a musket ball in his back. Almost casually throwing his career down the drain when he took his half-crazed friend to Vulcan, to mate with that...creature. The captain's voice began to overlay the images, filling his head, forcing him to confront the reality of his feelings. 'We all have to take a chance...Don't you think you'd better check with me first?...Mr. Spock, you're a stubborn man...a stubborn man....'

He closed his eyes. Stubborn man. Classic human understatement. Pig-headed would be more like it.

The captain had put his life, his career on the line for him more times than he could even count. When Spock needed someone, even if it was only to lend a sympathetic ear, give a kind word, it was Kirk who had been there for him. Not his father. Not his people. But Kirk. Always. A simple smile or the gift of life. It made no difference. Either way, when he held out his hand, it was Jim who was beside him, who reached out and grasped it in his own.

Spock took a deep breath. In return for all of that support, friendship...love, the captain deserved, at the very least, the truth. They both did.

With an abruptness that he found quite frightening, Spock made up his mind. He would go to him. Now. Before he lost his courage. Find some excuse to get him into the turbolift where they could be alone. And, once there, somehow tell him of his feelings. He had no idea what he would say, no idea of how he would possibly be able to get the words out. But the captain was a compassionate man. He would sense his ineptitude. He would help him.

Spock's heart began to race. Two days ago, he had dismissed the possibility of even accepting his inner feelings, much less speaking of them aloud. And now he was contemplating doing just that. He shook his head. Even after all these years of repression, the sheer tenacity of his human half never ceased to amaze him. When it came right down to it, perhaps he and the captain were not so different after all.

Taking another deep, almost gasping breath, Commander Spock opened his eyes. Rising to his feet, he straightened the imaginary wrinkles from his tunic and left his quarters, his step faltering only once as he passed through the doorway.

***

James T. Kirk sat in his command chair, nervously drumming his fingers against the consoles. He glanced at the helm chronometer, although he already knew what time it was. 0814. Fourteen minutes after start of morning shift and Spock was still not on the bridge.

Curling his fingers into fists, Kirk resisted the temptation to stand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chekov turn around and gaze questioningly at the empty science station. The Russian met his gaze. He gave him a frigid smile. "Something, Mr. Chekov?"

The young navigator hesitated, then shook his head. "No, Sir." He turned back, casting Sulu a puzzled look as he did so.

The minutes ticked by, each one longer than the last. And with every one, the captain's nervousness increased. His mind began to conjure up a thousand reasons for the uncharacteristic delay. None of them were very pleasant and, the more he dwelled on them, the worse they became. A hurried private message to his father, or if he were in a special hurry, to T'pau herself. Packing his bags, perhaps. Composing a stern final message to his errant and over-presumptuous captain. Kirk's fingers began their restless drumming once again.

Damn you, he thought to himself savagely. Your little fabrication in the turbolift was the last straw. Because you've never lied to him before. Now you've not only made him uncomfortable in your presence, you've told him that he can't even trust you to tell him the truth anymore. Shit.

For the first time this morning, the captain turned around and looked at the vacant library-computer station. Spock had stood at that post, backing him up, since his first day on this bridge. The thought of someone else standing there in his place was unbearable.

He shook his head. No one could ever take Spock's place. No one. And he would do whatever was necessary to keep the Vulcan at his side. He would give him the distance he needed, would behave as the correct and aloof captain no matter how much inner pain it brought him. It was a bitter solution, to be sure, but it was better than the alternative.

What James T. Kirk did not know, however, was that it was just about the worst decision he could have made.

***

First Officer Spock stepped onto the bridge. His adrenaline was coursing through his veins so swiftly that he felt light-headed and he stopped, taking a deep breath in an attempt to restore his equilibrium. He felt ready to jump right out of his skin.

Kirk heard his movement and, for an instant, Spock saw his fingers grip the consoles at his side. Then the grip relaxed and he swiveled his chair around to look at him. He smiled, a muted shadow of its former self, but to Spock, it seemed to be that familiar, brilliant smile that had broken hearts from one end of the galaxy to the other. A single lock of hair dangled across his forehead. Spock felt as if he would melt right into his boots.

The moment seemed to stretch out forever and he wondered vaguely if the rest of the crew was aware of it.

The question was answered an instant later. Uhura turned toward the command chair, her manner casual. "Captain?"

Kirk looked to one side. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

"I am receiving a transmission from the Manoran ground station, Sir. They say that Ambassador Valerian and her assistant are preparing for transport and request we match their coordinates."

"Very well." Kirk's gaze returned to Spock. "Their quarters are ready?"

Spock just stood there, looking at him, his frantically rehearsed speech lodged solidly in his throat. Right now, he was quite incapable of saying anything at all.

The captain, unfortunately, misunderstood the reason for his silence. His face tightened. He turned away, turned toward his chief engineer. "Mr. Scott, I think it would be a good idea if you came down to the transporter room with us. I've heard the Harappan are prone to insults. We don't want her thinking she's been slighted in any way."

The Scotsman gave him a curious look, but did not question the unusual request. He motioned a junior engineering officer to take over his station. "Aye, Captain."

Kirk rose to his feet and began to walk toward the turbolift, Spock falling into step instinctively at his side. Scotty lumbered in behind them. The doors closed.

Scotty glanced at the captain. "I hear this Ambassador Valerian is quite an eyeful."

Spock ignored the words. His gaze was on Kirk, his heart hammering so loudly that it seemed impossible the other two men did not hear it. Oh please, Jim, he thought frantically, realizing now that the support he'd expected from Kirk, the empathic, almost instinctive understanding, was not forthcoming. You must help me. I cannot possibly deal with this alone.

Kirk seemed completely oblivious to his inner distress. He gave his engineer a warm smile. "Yeah. I've heard that too."

He looked over at his first officer, his expression carefully neutral. The turbolift doors opened, revealing the crowded hallway. Spock stiffened. The words had nearly come to him and he knew that, had they been alone, he would have blurted them out and let the chips fall where they may. If Kirk rejected him, then so be it. But if he didn't...

The thought almost made him forget where he was going. He felt Kirk reach out and grasp his arm when he nearly careened against the wall. "You all right?"

Spock met his gaze. The darkness that had flashed through the hazel eyes was gone now. The only emotion Spock could see in them now was concern.

And he was suddenly gripped with the wild, irrational urge to pull Kirk against him in a fierce embrace, to nearly crush the life out of him with the force of his affection.

But, of course, he didn't. He nodded. "Yes, Captain. I was thinking."

A strange look came into those eyes at the words. The concern abruptly vanished. The darkness was back.

Kirk turned away. "Yeah, right." The tone of his voice almost seemed bitter.

Spock very nearly reached out to him then. But, by this time they had reached the transporter room.

And the words he wanted to say were never said.

***

Even as she took form in the transporter room, Mesila Siwan was searching out her enemy. Through the shimmering lights of the energy beam, she saw him at once, a tall, dark outline, ramrod stiff. Faintly malevolent.

The glow dissipated and the outline took on discernable features. Thin, easily the tallest man in the room. Dark hair. Angular face. Piercing eyes. No doubt vastly intelligent. And far stronger than he looked.

The ambassador to Manora materialized on the transporter pad directly beside her. And, pulling her attention from the Vulcan before any of his fellow crewmembers became aware of it, Siwan fixed her gaze on the only other serious threat she faced on this ship. The captain of the Enterprise.

His pose one of relaxed formality, James T. Kirk stood beside his first officer. He smiled up at them, the expression on his face one of professional courtesy, his eyes reflecting nothing of the man inside.

And then Mesila Siwan noticed something else. Valerian, as was her habit when she wanted to impress, had dressed in a tight-fitting gown of silver, her mane of raven black hair hanging straight down nearly to the floor. She was, as Siwan well knew, a strikingly handsome woman, the clothes, the hair, only highlighting her beauty. The engineer and the transporter chief had been affected by it the instant she took form before them. Siwan had seen that clearly in their widened eyes, their slack-jawed expressions.

The Vulcan remained oblivious and that, too, she expected. What she did not expect was the almost complete indifference of the captain. The man's reputation as a womanizer was well known to her. The fact that he seemed unmoved by Valerian's beauty was strange indeed. Siwan filed the information away in the back of her mind.

Kirk stepped forward, his hands pressed together before his chest in a typical Harappan greeting. "Welcome aboard the Enterprise, Aren Valerian." He tilted his head to one side to include her silent companion. "And Tira Uqaid, I believe?"

She looked up, surprised that he not only knew her by name, but had also used the proper title to denote one of her status. The captain smiled. She smiled back, her mind beginning to race. She had researched what she could on this man, but already, he was turning out to be far different from what she'd expected. Whether that would turn out to be an advantage or an added source of danger, she had yet to determine.

Aren Valerian bowed her head, causing the hair to sweep around her shoulders and dust the floor before her. "Your vessel honors us, Captain Kirk." She held out her hand.

Moving gracefully to her side, he took the proffered hand within his own and walked her off the platform. A peculiar look came into his eyes when he touched her warmer-than-human skin. Siwan saw it. Another unexpected reaction. She filed that information away also.

They crossed the room, Kirk and Valerian hand in hand, Siwan one step behind, and stopped in front of the Vulcan. "Ambassador Valerian, Tira Uqaid, I would like you to meet my First Officer, Commander Spock." Kirk said the words easily, but an almost imperceptible change came over the tone of his voice.

Siwan noted that too, recognizing for the first time that, whatever was going on, it did not concern the captain alone, but somehow included his silent first officer as well.

What the young terrorist did not realize, however, was that, although she had a remarkable gift for discerning subtleties, undercurrents, things virtually invisible to those around her, that talent would have been wasted on this ship under normal circumstances. Had she materialized a day later, an hour later, perhaps even ten minutes later, the emotional turmoil boiling beneath the surface in these two men would have been brought under control and she would not have been able to see it.

But fortune was smiling on Mesila Siwan today. She entered their lives at the exact moment when they were weakest, when their hidden vulnerabilities were discernable to someone of her perceptive gifts, someone who was looking for just such a handicap. It was a quirk of fate that she was well equipped to see. And to grasp. If she had believed in a hereafter, she might even have offered up a prayer of thanks.

Valerian, oblivious as usual to her attaché's inner thoughts, stood before the rigid Vulcan and gave him a regal nod of the head. "Your reputation precedes you, Commander. I am well acquainted with your writings."

Spock bowed. "I am honored, Ambassador."

Kirk turned back to include Siwan in the introduction. She moved forward. Spock looked down at her and gravely inclined his head. "Tira Uqaid," he said formally. "I bid you welcome."

Siwan's instincts were working at full power now. She detected a peculiarity in the Vulcan's low voice as well, similar to that vague sense of disturbance in the captain's tone, but in another way, very different. She couldn't determine exactly what it was; like everything else, it behaved like a ghostly shadow that seemed to be everywhere and dissipated into nothingness when she tried to look directly at it.

Kirk moved them on to his chief engineer and transporter chief. Valerian nodded to each man in turn, her eyes taking on a hint of amusement at the sounds of their mumbled replies, their attempts to not stare at her.

Siwan followed unobtrusively in her footsteps, her eyes bland, her thoughts spinning. Forcing their gazes from Valerian's back, the officers gave her a greeting that was almost one of relief, the flush visibly fading from their cheeks as the ambassador moved away. The response was hardly an unexpected one. Siwan knew that, in comparison to her stunning companion, she was as frumpy as a dormouse. It was a situation that suited her perfectly. In her line of work, blending into the background was a necessity.

Captain Kirk led Valerian by the hand. "If you will accompany us, ladies, we will escort you to your quarters."

Although the captain had clearly spoken in the plural, of the three other men in the room, only Commander Spock broke from his position alongside the transporter console and began to move with them.

The captain did not look up at him as they walked through the door, but instead, kept his gaze focused on Valerian. The ambassador leaned to one side and whispered something in his ear. Kirk gave her a brilliant smile. Shifting his step by a fraction, he brushed the side of his body against her own.

And once again, fate intervened in the events unfolding here today. Because it was at this exact moment that Mesila Siwan cast a quick glance to her right. She saw the look that, for a single second, flashed through the Vulcan's eyes at the sight of the almost casual touch. It was as universal as any in the galaxy.

Siwan felt her heart skip a beat. Well, well, she thought with an inward smile. I begin to see. This is an interesting development. Perhaps you won't be such a formidable adversary after all.

Spock glanced down at her, his face once again devoid of expression. But Mesila Siwan was not fooled. She knew what she had seen for an instant in those alien eyes. And she knew exactly how to exploit it. Even on Harappa, two plus two equals four.

***

Leonard McCoy sat back, his hands folded across his lap. His manner was casual, his eyes probing. Spock was going so far out of his way to pretend that nothing was amiss that the warning fairly screamed through McCoy's professional head.

So he sat out the welcoming dinner for Aren Valerian, sat while the other men pretended they weren't staring at the ambassador, and watched First Officer Spock. Watched him move his food around on his plate, watched him say practically nothing all night.

But most revealing of all, he watched him not watch the captain. And if there was one thing that Leonard McCoy knew, it was that Spock's gaze was almost always on the captain.

Something was clearly wrong. The Vulcan was off his feed. Was it possible that he and the captain had a fight? Hardly a likely scenario. Kirk seemed relaxed and at ease, but then again, he always was better at concealing emotional distress, Vulcan controls or no.

Scotty dropped a fork against his plate. Spock visibly jumped, glancing around surreptitiously to see if anyone noticed. For an instant, their eyes met. McCoy noticed and Spock quite clearly knew it. Quickly, he turned away. McCoy half-expected him to pour himself a drink.

All right, my friend, he thought to himself. Your problems are my problems, too. Can't have our command personnel in a questionable state, now can we?

Spock jerked his head up to look at him. There was a forbidding expression in those dark eyes. McCoy ignored it completely. Like I said, my friend. My job.

Aren Valerian was seated beside the captain, her quiet assistant on her far side. The other woman sat, occasionally venturing into the conversation when one of the Enterprise crew made yet another valiant attempt to draw her out. For the most part, however, she nestled into her chair, content to listen and intermittently make a comment to Valerian in the Harappan tongue.

Kirk poured the ambassador another drink. She said something to him in a low voice. He began to laugh.

And it was then that McCoy noticed something else. Spock wasn't the only one avoiding eye contact. The captain had said very little to his first officer during the entire meal, devoting most of his attention to their honored guest. At first, McCoy had attributed it to Kirk's typical diplomatic courtesy. But now, studying the two of them together, Spock's pale face, Kirk's almost unusual attendance to Valerian, he began to wonder if there were more to it than that.

Don't tell me you two really did have a fight, he thought in astonishment. Can't rightly imagine that.

Kirk glanced at him and smiled. Spock kept his attention focused on his plate. The captain turned toward Scotty, sitting at his left, then shifted his gaze to Spock. The Vulcan looked up and their eyes met and held for a moment. But that unique change of expression that came into the hazel eyes when the captain gazed at Spock was absent now. If McCoy didn't know better, he would have sworn the two of them had just met.

Kirk turned back to the Harappan ambassador. Spock resumed his scrutiny of his plate.

The scenario happened in the wink of an eye, but McCoy was a trained observer, especially when it came to these two. None of it escaped his attention. And he decided right then and there that, before things got any worse, he was going to find out just what in the hell was going on.

***

The Harappan attaché stood behind her superior, running a silver comb through the other woman's hair. Valerian leaned back. "That was most enjoyable," she said, her voice slightly husky from the wine

Siwan stroked the hair flat against her back. "It was indeed, my lady." Valerian looked up at her and smiled. She paused, then spoke again. "So, have you thought of whether you will take him up on his offer?"

The ambassador's eyes narrowed. "What offer, who?"

Siwan continued to brush her hair. "The captain. The poor man is no doubt pacing the length of his quarters waiting for you to come."

Valerian straightened and turned around to face her. "What are you talking about?"

Siwan gave her a puzzled look. "You did not understand his proposal to you?"

Valerian opened her mouth, but, before she could reply, Siwan spoke again. "Our contacts with humans have been rather infrequent. Perhaps it is because of my friend Masel that I know of this..."

The words trailed off. But Valerian was clearly interested. She grasped Siwan by the hand and pulled her down to the couch. "What about your friend Masel?"

Siwan shrugged. "I had a friend, Masel Teland. She was married to an Earthman for a time and she told me about the strange courting customs that they have."

She gave the older woman a bemused smile. "It seems that, if the man wants a woman of equal rank to come to his bed, he cannot ask her directly. If the woman is beneath his status, then he may approach her candidly. But if she is not, he must show his interest in a roundabout way, by showering affection on her as the captain did toward you this evening, and then wait for her to either accept or refuse his offer by coming to his rooms or staying away."

Valerian's eyes brightened. Siwan saw her shift her weight. "I had not heard that about this," she whispered.

Siwan pulled the raven hair forward, smoothing it evenly across the ambassador's breasts. "You wish to go to him?" she asked, her voice low.

Valerian met her gaze. She began to squirm again. "You are certain of this, what your friend told you?"

Siwan smiled. "Yes. Quite certain."

She rose to her feet, pulling the other woman up with her. Picking up a bottle of perfume from the table beside them, she sprinkled it over Valerian's dress. "Go to him, Valsin," she said, using an intimate form of address reserved for occasions such as these. "You wish to go. I can see it in your eyes. And, after all of the attention he gave to you tonight, it was clear that he wishes for you to come."

She began to walk toward the door. Valerian unconsciously moved with her, then hesitated. Siwan sensed it, knew exactly how to stifle it. She leaned to one side. "Tell me, Valsin. Those stories that you told me yesterday, the rumors about Captain Kirk's...endowments, do you think they're true?"

Valerian rolled her eyes heavenward and began to laugh. Siwan laughed with her, sliding one arm around the other woman's waist. She took another step forward, Valerian, once again, walking with her. The automatic sensor registered their approach. The door opened.

The ambassador moved out into the corridor, then turned back. "Are you certain? Perhaps I should bathe first?"

Siwan gave her a gentle push. She had studied the Vulcan intensively during the three hour dinner that had just ended, disguising her interest behind a cloak of demure bashfulness. She was willing to bet every professional instinct she had that he would go to Kirk's quarters before the night was out.

And if Valerian didn't hurry, he might make it there before she did.

She smiled, the look a mixture of encouragement and exasperation. "Go!" she whispered.

The ambassador gave her a grateful look. Then she turned and walked down the deserted corridor.

Siwan watched her go before stepping back into the room. When the door had safely closed, she moved quickly to the closet and took out her carrying case. Walking to the bed, she sat and coded a sequence into the lock. The case snapped open.

Reaching to the bottom, Siwan pulled out two packages wrapped in brown cloth. The first was large, the second very small. Opening the smaller of the two, she studied the tiny microcircuit concealed within it for a moment before slipping the module into her breast pocket.

Then, unwrapping the larger one, she pulled out a crisp, neatly folded uniform of Starfleet red and, tugging off her evening dress, slipped the tunic over her head.

Rising to her feet, the young woman smoothed her hair and placed her case carefully back in the closet before following her superior from the room. But, unlike Aren Valerian, she walked down the hallway in the opposite direction.

***

'Tell him. Tell him.' The voice would give him no peace. 'You were about to do it a few hours ago. Go and do it now. Tell him.'

Spock paced his quarters, his hands clasped behind his back. He was afraid now, afraid of responding to that inner voice in a way he had not been before. Earlier today, he had listened to it, had overcome his fear, his almost crippling emotional scars. Had been ready to do as it demanded of him and bare his very soul to the captain. The decision was made. The rest would be easy. Jim would sense his terror, would reach out and help him just as he always had in the past.

So, clamping down a tight lid on his jangling nerves, he had gone to the bridge. To face his friend, his anchor, the center of his entire life.

And what had he found when he got there? A wall of ice. A barrier of rigid formality that only grew worse as the day went on. A silent walk to the guest suites, his long stride matched by the ambassador's attaché. His eyes staring rigidly ahead. Kirk brushed his body against Valerian's six different times. Spock counted them one by one.

After seeing the Harappan visitors to their quarters, the three men had gone back to the bridge, Scotty mumbling about the alien woman's beauty, Kirk smiling. Spock fearful of showing anything at all.

The afternoon's shift had been endless. Silence. His heart breaking within his chest, his mind in an uproar. The words he wanted to say turning to dust and blowing away.

The captain looked at him only once in those five hours. And that was to tell him he was leaving the bridge to dress for the ambassador's welcoming dinner. That he would see him there in fifty minutes.

Spock had stood rigidly, watching him go. He wanted to race across the bridge, grab him, spin him around. Scream out why? Why did you lie to me about Carmilan? Why are you shutting me out like a leper? Why? Why? Why?

'You know why.' That harsh Vulcan voice had been echoing through his head for hours, whispering its searing message again and again. 'It is because he is a human. And humans are illogical, unpredictable creatures. You were a fool to expect reason from him. He may be an exemplary example of the species but he is still a human.'

Spock turned his face away, a tremor running up his spine. Much as he tried, he could not refute the truth in the words. The captain's behavior was illogical. Inexplicable. First he senses emotional attachment, erotic attraction. Then, without warning and seemingly without reason, Kirk withdraws from him. Cuts him off. Treats him almost as a total stranger. He goes to some length to fabricate a tale about a sexual rendezvous with a fellow crewmember for no apparent reason at all.

Stopping his restless pacing, Spock walked to the bed and sat down, his mind returning to the liaison that had so tormented his mind. For nothing.

He had thought at first he knew the reason the captain had not gone to Carmilan's room. Walking away from the woman, his thoughts in an uproar, he scoured out the possibilities. Found the most logical one. Used it to control his unease.

Ship's business. The most reasonable possibility. It had to be ship's business. Something had come up to interfere with the captain's plans. A last minute call from somewhere. It occurred all the time. No reason to assume it hadn't happened last night.

He had returned to his room then, his human half urging him to run, his Vulcan half forcing him to walk slowly. Sat before his monitor. Dialed up the ship's log for the night before.

And sat, staring for a good five minutes at the report that covered a mere two lines of his screen.

The log was empty. The previous night unusually quiet. Nothing on it at all. From anywhere.

Lowering his head, Spock studied the intertwined fingers that continued to twist fitfully against one another. No reason. No explanation. Nothing on the log. Nothing.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he made one final attempt to organize his thoughts, review the situation logically. There had to be a reason for the captain's actions. Kirk was not a cruel man, nor was he prone to irrational behavior. There must be an underlying logic behind the apparent aberrations.

Begin at the beginning, he thought, unaware that he was not, in fact, beginning at the beginning, but several hours later. When the pattern had already been forged in iron.

First Kirk goes to some lengths to convince him he is going to spend the night with Carmilan. Then inexplicably, he does not go. He orders Mr. Scott to accompany them to the transporter room for no purpose other than, apparently, not wanting to be alone with his second-in-command. The ride to the lower levels is endless. He gives Mr. Scott a few words and a smile. For his first officer, there is nothing at all.

If anything, the situation only degenerates from then on. Meeting Valerian, flirting with her. Treating Spock as if he were invisible. Then the dinner. That devastating dinner. Kirk's laughter. Valerian's laughter. The looks he gave her. The looks he gave everyone.

He. He. He. Spock jerked his head up, realizing for the first time how self-centered his recollections had been. Kirk had cut off him. Kirk had ignored him. Kirk had hurt him. Poor, long-suffering Spock. Standing silently while everyone ran a steamroller over him. The classic stoical victim.

It was, he suddenly understood, the way he saw himself, had always seen himself. The man of stone. Without feelings. 'Don't worry about Spock. He doesn't care. He'll stay on the ship while everyone else goes on shore leave. What'd he do down there anyway, study the way the grass grows? Doesn't drink. Doesn't get laid. Doesn't even smile. Poor miserable bastard. Wonder what in the hell keeps him going from day to day?'

Spock lowered his head. In reality, no one had ever said those things to him, certainly no one on the Enterprise ever would. And yet the memory persisted in his own mind. And it had, he now realized, effectively blinded him to the other side of the picture, the side that showed him not as the passive recipient in everything that had taken place, but as the mover, the instigator. The catalyst that, he suddenly sensed, had set in motion all that was to follow.

Spock took a deep breath. Ruthlessly stripped away his self-made blinders and looked reality straight in the face. As the captain always did. Or so he thought.

And what he saw was not very pleasant. For he saw himself selfishly withdrawing from the captain, fleeing his quarters after that fateful massage like some sort of frightened virgin. Avoiding him on his off duty hours with one lame excuse after another. Refusing a dinner invitation to Kirk's face, then only relenting because he couldn't bear the sorrow that came into those hazel eyes. Retreat. Pull back. The words were so familiar they almost made him weep. Block everything behind a wall of stolid indifference. If it hurts, shove it into some dark corner of your mind and pretend it doesn't exist. The definitive Vulcan reaction to any sort of emotional unrest. For the first twenty-four hours, that was exactly what he had done. It was only after the startling revelation about Carmilan that he made even the slightest attempt to face the issue directly. Allowed that human voice entrance into his conscious thoughts for the first time in a great many years. He had still viewed the situation as if he were a spectator, as if his abortive dash from Kirk's quarters had not set the tone of the entire scenario, but still, he had faced it enough to come to a decision. And do something about it. Clamped a metal band around his heart to keep it from jumping right out of his chest and marched to the bridge, feeling so light-headed that he thought he would surely faint on the way.

And when he had gotten there, his nerves in a hopelessly tangled mess, he had found the captain behaving in a way he had never seen before. Distant and aloof, conducting himself with civility and respect, but very little more. Walking to the transporter room shoulder to shoulder and yet a million miles apart. Watching him greet Valerian. Virtually throw himself at her. Just like Carmilan, although this time, lest the Vulcan miss the point, it took place before his very eyes.

Spock felt his chest constrict although whether from sorrow or shame, he wasn't quite sure. The answer was as clear as his own insecurity, so obvious that a blind man could have seen it with a cane.

It was nothing but the same old thing, over and over. Short of jeopardizing his ship, Kirk would say anything, do anything, to protect his first officer. He would mislead Starfleet, insult a high commissioner to his face, travel halfway across the galaxy if that's what it took. Throw his career down the tubes with both hands. Even allow his weakened, nearly staggering friend to kill him because he refused to do more than simply defend himself.

What he would not do, however, was to allow himself to become a threat. If he sensed Spock was nervous about his sexual orientations, and, considering the Vulcan's skittish behavior, how could he think otherwise, what better tactic than to inundate himself in other women, to visibly demonstrate that he was as much a womanizer as he had always been. The logic of it all was so overwhelming that Spock could scarcely believe he had been unable to see it before.

'Go to him.' The voice that filled his mind now was soft, gentle, compassionate, driving those stern Vulcan words from his head. In a strange way, it almost sounded like McCoy. 'He is suffering as much as you are,' it whispered. 'You know that he loves you, that he was only fabricating his interest in those women to protect you. Do not leave him alone any longer. Go to him. Take him in your arms. Love him.

Rising to his feet, Spock, for the second time today, made up his mind to look his feelings, his soul mate, straight in the eye. And tell him of his love. If the words came out mumbled, if he made a complete, utter fool of himself, then so be it. But one way or the other, the words would be spoken. The unnatural silence that had fallen between them would end. Tonight.

Taking another deep breath, Commander Spock walked to the door and cut the sensor beam. The door opened.

The hour was late and the hallway empty. He could see the door to Kirk's quarters at the far end of the hall. With his acute Vulcan eyesight, he could even make out the name on the wall panel.

His heart was pounding like a sledgehammer, the blood surging against his sensitive eardrums until he was certain they would crack apart. A wave of dizziness washed over him and, for a single, terrifying instant, he was certain he was about to faint right in the middle of the corridor.

But, with true human stubbornness, he would not even let that thought dissuade him. Biting his lip, he began to walk up the hallway.

***

Samarra Uqaid had done her homework. She knew where the auxiliary computer system was, knew exactly which components she would alter by introducing her module. Crossing through the doorway of the room labeled D-478. Authorized Personnel Only,' she waited, her breath stilled in her throat, as the door slid back and silence descended once again.

Nearly five minutes passed before she dared to move but no one had seen her entry. Nobody was coming. Breathing a sigh of relief, she made her way to the central computer console and, bending down, pulled off the maintenance panel.

The instructions that had been rehearsed and reiterated a thousand times ran through her head like a recording loop. She had, in truth, no idea of exactly what she was doing. Computer expertise of the type needed to augment this sort of malfunction was far beyond even her abilities. But she did know how to do her job, how to recognize the wires, the circuits, the components she needed to connect to her board. And, perhaps most important of all, she was quite capable of seeing that the job was done and removing anyone who had the misfortune to get in her way.

Kneeling before the panel, Samarra Uqaid poked her head inside the console. The circuitry was just as she expected it to be and she knew immediately what to do. Reaching out, she disconnected a tiny, seemingly insignificant component and inserted her own alien circuit board in its place.

It took her less than fifteen minutes to secure the module. The malfunction it was designed to create was a slower task. That would take many hours, would not become acute for nearly three days.

Snapping the panel back into place, Samarra stood up. The only man aboard this ship who could spot the deviation was, with any luck at all, about to have his perfectly ordered brain patterns shot to hell. By the time he regained his equilibrium, she and her superior would have fled the doomed ship hours before and could very well find themselves lying in a pool of scented rose water in the city below.

And, for him and those other unlucky crewmembers aboard the Enterprise, it would be too late.

***

Spock reached the captain's door. Raising his hand, he was less than an inch from the buzzer when his sensitive ears picked up the voices. Kirk, talking softly. To himself? More likely speaking over the intercom, seeing to some minor ship's business.

Spock lowered his hand. Loathe to break into Kirk's concentration, he would wait until the voice stopped.

It did. He raised his hand again.

And froze.

Another voice. There was another voice. The captain was not alone. Someone was with him. A woman. Could be anyone, he told himself. A yeoman, a crewmember seeking advice or delivering reports. Those endless reports that he had to sign a thousand times a day.

The voice spoke again, a soft, seductive voice. Spock closed his eyes. He recognized it now. And for one endless second, he thought he would pound his fists against the door and scream.

His hand fell to his side. He heard the captain laugh. Heard the ambassador laugh. There were sounds of bed sheets rustling, a groan.

The groan was low. It was not Valerian's voice.

His shoulders began to slump. He had been a fool. He should never have listened to that voice. Treacherous, seductive thing. All it ever brought him was pain.

Spock straightened his back and turned away. He wouldn't make that mistake again. Even loneliness was better than the misery he felt right now.

Without a backward glance, his eyes focused on the floor, Commander Spock walked back to his quarters.

But he did not go inside. He stood in the corridor, his hand hovering an inch from the sensor beam. But somehow, he couldn't find the strength within himself to break it.

There was just too much loneliness in there, too much despair and desolation. The walls, the silence would mock him with his sorrow, would scream at him for his foolishness, for listening to that deceitful voice. Would throw that aching solitude in his face as fitting punishment for his own shortcomings, his own failure. His own unforgivable stupidity.

Spock turned away. He couldn't bear the thought of stepping into those barren quarters right now. So he would do what he had done so often in his life. Bury himself in work. Hide behind the shield of objective facts. Forget himself in the greater good of universal knowledge.

Slowly, First Officer Spock walked to the turbolift, his spirits as low as they had ever been in his life. Until two minutes ago, he had thought he understood the true meaning of loneliness.

He realized now how terribly wrong he had been.

***

The chronometer on the wall said 0041 hours. Alen Valerian stretched. She was sated, warmed, content. Reaching out, she ran a manicured finger lightly along the chest of the man lying beside her.

Kirk stirred, rolling back to meet her gaze. He smiled, but it was a smile without joy. She smiled back at him. She expected nothing more.

The captain of the Enterprise was well versed in the arts of love. He knew all the right moves, sensed when to talk, when to be silent, understood how to satisfy his companion. Unlike so many of her previous experiences with men, Kirk was a warm, considerate lover, pacing himself to her slower timing, seeing to it that she derived as much gratification as he did himself.

And yet something was missing. It was as if he'd only been going through the motions, as if his body were on automatic and his mind somewhere very far away.

Valerian ran her fingers through his hair. She had always been good at reading people, at seeing the inner feelings that lay beneath the surface. She sensed that something was troubling this man, something very deep-seated and painful. But she also recognized something else. That the source of this disquiet rested on very sacred ground and her interference would not be well received.

Aren Valerian was not perfect. There were many flaws in her character, as she well knew. But, as a diplomat, tactlessness was not one of them. She, too, knew when to speak and when to keep her mouth shut. And right now, Valerian read the warning in those soft hazel eyes as clearly as if Kirk had said them aloud. She didn't mention that elusive shadow that kept continually slipping between them. Rather, she tried one more time to make Kirk forget, at least for a few moments, whatever it was that so haunted him.

Slipping her hand down along the side of the captain's face, she pulled him toward her. He smiled gently, but sadness continued to fill those beautiful green-gold eyes. And she knew that no matter how much she might strive to please him, pleasure him, make him laugh, no matter how much she might try to love him, it would never be within her power to take that sorrow away.

***

Leonard McCoy sat before his desk, drumming his fingers against the polished surface. He should have been in bed hours ago, he told himself. Hours ago. His duty shift was scheduled to start in two hours and, if he failed to get any sleep, his inefficiency would be impaired if there were an emergency.

Running his fingers through his hair, McCoy allowed himself the luxury of a sigh. Worries about inefficiency or no, he would get no sleep tonight. He had known that at 10 p.m. the night before and he knew it now. "Blasted Vulcan," he mumbled under his breath. "You're going to make me old before my time. I thought at least you'd let it go until tomorrow."

Turning on his computer, he programmed in an interior scan. It took the sensors nearly a minute to locate the elusive Vulcan. Hiding, McCoy thought ruefully. About as far off the beaten track as one could get on a starship. Auxiliary 387.

"All right," he growled. "I'm coming, but I don't know why I waste my time. Never listen to a word I say, anyway."

Rising to his feet, McCoy left his office, heading for the lower scientific levels where, as he had so astutely put it a moment before, First Officer Spock had been hiding for the past seven hours and forty-one minutes.

***

The sun was warm against his back, the sand soft beneath his knees. Tilting his head, he looked up.

Spock stood above him, inches away, his legs spread widely apart, his hands clasped behind his back. The classic Spock stance. Even when the Vulcan was fully clothed, he had always found the sight impossible to resist. Seeing Spock now, standing in the sun, wearing nothing but a pair of tight bathing trunks and a tan, the image was almost frighteningly erotic.

His erection, no small matter a moment before, was growing to truly awesome proportions. Reaching up, he grasped the Vulcan by the arm and pulled him to his side. "What are you trying to do, get out of our swim?"

Spock knelt before him, his expression one of pure innocence. "I do not understand what you mean, Captain?"

Captain? Shit. Kirk pushed him back, knocking him into the sand. The action took Spock by surprise and before he could react, Kirk straddled his waist, pulling his arms above his head and pinning them against the ground.

Spock looked up at him, apparently deciding not to throw him across the beach. Kirk enjoyed his dominance, illusory though it might be. He would play along.

The captain smiled, tightening his grip on the thin wrists. Arching his body forward, he rubbed his swollen penis against Spock's groin. The skin-tight swimming trunks the Vulcan wore were no protection at all, the bulge they so clearly revealed far too inviting a target to miss. And the captain's aim had always been good.

The dark eyes fluttered. Spock threw his head back.

Kirk leaned down to nuzzle his neck. "You may be stronger than I am, but you're my prisoner nevertheless." Lest Spock miss the point, he lowered his head and began to nibble on one earlobe. All the Vulcan controls in the world were useless against this, a fact he well knew. And exploited with great skill.

Spock moaned and made a half-hearted attempt to pull away from the relentless torture. Kirk held him with remarkable ease. "Like I said," he whispered, knowing that Spock could break him in two if he were so inclined. "My prisoner. Forever."

Spock was in no state to refute the words. Nor was he much inclined to. Kirk traced an outline of one pointed ear with the tip of his tongue. "Say it," he murmured.

Spock made some unintelligible remark. Kirk's tongue darted into the cavity, his pelvis pushing down with coldly calculating purpose on the Vulcan's rapidly enlarging erection. Spock squirmed as Kirk's tongue outlined the inner curves of the ear, trying with a noticeable lack of success, to turn his face away.

Shifting his weight, Kirk grasped both of Spock's wrists in one hand, twining the fingers of the other one through the dark hair, holding the Vulcan's head in a tight grip.

"I said say it," he growled.

Dark eyes opened. "Say what?" the Vulcan gasped.

"Say that you're my prisoner. Forever." He grinned. His eyes were positively demonic.

"I am..." Spock's body twisted as Kirk continued to move against him; sensuous, rocking motions that drove every shred of logic right out the window. "I am..."

Pulling his hand from the silky hair, Kirk slipped it under the bathing suit. "You keep repeating yourself. Not very precise. I'm shocked." His fingers ran the length of the Vulcan's penis, moving down to massage the testes, the inner thigh.

"What do you say," he murmured into one elegant ear, deciding that he didn't really need an answer to his question. The Vulcan's body language told him everything he needed to know anyway. "Feel like messing around?"

Spock groaned. Kirk took that as a yes. Shifting position, he eased off the Vulcan's trunks. The huge, faintly alien organ sprang out before him, standing as rigid and erect as any true Vulcan should. Flushed a delicate shade of green, it seemed swollen well past the point of actual discomfort.

Kirk was a compassionate man. He couldn't let such a painful condition go uncorrected. Reaching out, he took the distended shaft in his hand and began to run his fingernails across the edge of the glans. Incredibly, the massive erection became even larger.

Straightening up, he quickly slipped off his bathing suit and moved forward to straddle the Vulcan's waist. Spock's fingers dug into the sand at his sides. His eyes were still closed.

Kirk lowered himself down, supporting his weight with one hand, reaching behind him to guide the steel-hard shaft with the other. He sensed his own muscles relax as Spock's penis touched his skin, then slipped into the narrow opening with an ease and naturalness that had astounded him at first. Rotating his hips, he could feel the erection move within him, throbbing, pulsing with life and power. Filling him like a red hot spear, piercing him to the heart, spreading out until it seemed to enflame every nerve ending in his body at once.

Lowering his head, he nearly gasped, reminded yet again that the boundary between pleasure and pain was, at times, a very thin one indeed. His heart hammered within his chest, sending the blood pounding against his eardrums, roaring through his head. The intensity of it nearly drove the air from his lungs and he found himself wondering if it really were possible to die from an excess of sexual stimulation.

Spock opened his eyes and gave him a very indulgent look, but said nothing.

Despite his slightly disoriented mind, Kirk couldn't keep the smile from his face. Spock, much as he would deny it, enjoyed flexing his telepathic muscles now and again. A subtle reminder to the varied abilities and strengths that lay beneath that unflappable Vulcan hide.

But the captain of the Enterprise, although he possessed only one-quarter of Spock's physical strength and none of his telepathic abilities, did have a few unique talents of his own.

And knowing his first officer, his friend and lover inside and out was one of them.

Leaning forward, he began running the tip of his tongue along the Vulcan's angular collarbone, tracing the path of the curve, moving slowly toward the hollow of the neck. Spock quivered. The clavicle was a most peculiar place for the Vulcan to find so sexually stimulating, but it clearly drove him to distraction. It was a peculiarity Kirk had discovered almost at once. And one he exploited at every opportunity.

Nipping gently at the skin, he watched in satisfaction as Spock admitted defeat and allowed his eyes to roll up beneath the lids. Infinite diversity, the captain mused, feeling Spock twist beneath him. Just so long as I know where your weakness is.

The assault continued. Spock's body began to arch upward once again in slow, regular thrusts. His eyes were still closed, his lips parted in a way that no one else on the Enterprise would ever see, his skin flushed a deeper shade of green.

The captain, never one to ignore an advantage, was quick to twist the blade. Pulling his legs together, he tightened his anal muscles.

Spock arched his neck, his hips rising up a good three inches from the sand. Kirk smiled, closing his eyes, squeezing his muscles even further, feeling the Vulcan shudder and twist between his legs.

But when he opened his eyes again a moment later, it was to find Spock, much to his surprise, watching him. His body continued to respond, moving with his own peculiar combination of grace and jerkiness. But the eyes were clear. And there was a most peculiar look on his face. Kirk knew at once he was in trouble.

Spock, of course, read the thoughts. The corners of his mouth curled up into a smile. Sliding one hand between their bodies, he ran the tips of his fingers along Kirk's penis, brushing them lightly along the surface, rubbing a single fingernail along the velvet skin, down the shaft, then back again. Reaching beneath the underside of the glans, the long fingers stopped directly in the center. "Infinite diversity," he murmured, a rather sinful look in his eyes, "works both ways, my friend."

He began to massage a section of skin that couldn't have been more than a centimeter in size. The erotic sensations took a geometrical leap in intensity, bringing with them a pleasure so powerful that, for an instant, Kirk was certain he would throw his head back and scream. Spock's gaze did not waver from his face as the unrelenting torment continued, sending his blood pressure into what had to be the upper stratosphere. Shit, Spock! he thought in fevered dismay. Whatever in the hell you're doing, cut it out. You really are going to kill me!

The Vulcan gave him another of those indulgent looks but, much to his inner relief, made no move to stop.

His eyes felt as if they were going to blow right out of his head. "Damn it, Spock," he gasped. "I am going to scream..."

"Feel free to do so. No one will hear you. There is not another sentient being within a hundred mile radius."

If he'd been able to think, the Vulcan's dry, almost dispassionate remark would have made him laugh. But laughter was definitely not on his mind at the moment. Nor, frankly, was much of anything else.

"Oh, god...Spock..." Every cell of his body felt as if it were exploding at once and, with what little rationality he could gather together, he wondered how his mind could feel so alive and so totally empty at the same time.

The Vulcan arched upward, his eyes closed now, moving right along with him, step by step. Lights began to dance behind Kirk's eyes as his body coiled toward one enormous eruption. He pushed down, feeling Spock moan and jerk spasmodically, feeling the hot semen pour into him. The sensation of the Vulcan's lifeforce within his own body drove him right over the edge and the orgasm tore through him like a white-hot wire, sending every rational thought into complete oblivion. His fingers unthinkingly clutched at the dark hair. He cried out Spock's name, thanking a godless universe for giving him this companion, this lover. This new meaning in his life.

"Oh god, Spock. I love you. I love you. I love you..."

The ejaculation woke him up. Instantly.

Instinctively reaching beneath him, he felt the evidence of his erotic dream spreading out across the sheets beneath him. "Oh, shit." Glancing up, he saw the bathroom light on, heard the sound of the sonic shower. At least the ambassador didn't see it.

Rising quickly to his feet, he stripped the bed and dropped the sheets down the disposal chute. The sounds of the shower stopped. Grabbing a robe, he hastily slipped it on, tying the belt around his waist just as Valerian stepped back into the room.

She was naked, her hair cascading around her like a garment. She smiled when she saw him. Walking to his side, she reached out to grasp the ends of the belt.

He gently pushed her away before she could see the evidence of his orgasm. "I'm afraid I can't, Aren. I have to go on duty in ninety minutes and have to take a shower and get something to eat first."

She stepped back and gave him a strange look. But she didn't say anything.

Kirk walked into the shower. Throwing the robe to one side, he set the setting on full. The sonic waves dissipated the evidence of his arousal into its constituent atoms, stripping the sweat, the scent of Valerian from his body.

But it did nothing to ease the misery from his mind and when he stepped out five minutes later, he felt as soiled as when he stepped in.

***

It was 6:18 in the morning when Leonard McCoy walked into Auxiliary Science Lab B. The room, filled with sophisticated, if seldom-used equipment, was quiet, its sole occupant working soundlessly on the far terminal.

The doctor began to cross the room, his gaze on the first officer of the Enterprise seated a dozen yards away. Spock, he realized now, was not actively working on the computer. The terminal was filled with data, but Spock sat before it, staring into the screen, his eyes unfocused, his mind a million miles away.

The good doctor pressed his lips together. To see Spock this distracted, combined with the fact that the Vulcan had not even heard his approach, was so out of character that McCoy knew his premonition of trouble had been all-too-accurate.

He reached Spock's side and cleared his throat. The sound so startled the Vulcan that he quite noticeably jumped, the stylus clutched in his right hand falling to the floor with a clatter. McCoy's eyes widened. Irritation, a look that bordered very close to a threat during dinner the night before. Now distraction, nervousness. For someone who prided himself on his non-emotion, such visible lapses were disturbing signs indeed.

"Sorry," he said, endeavoring to keep the concern from his voice. "I didn't mean to give you a fright. With my famous light step, I thought sure you heard me clumping across the room." He smiled.

Spock did not look amused by his half-hearted attempt at humor. Or pleased to see him, for that matter. But McCoy was nothing if not persistent. He wasn't about to back down now. With the smile firmly ensconced his face, he inclined his head toward the computer terminal. "What's you doing?"

Spock hesitated, then turned back to the monitor. "I am working on a method of transposing dimensional framework within a matrix of gravitational time-space distortions."

Whatever in the hell that meant. McCoy suspected that the convoluted reply was intended to dissuade any further inquiries, to send him meekly on his way. But meekness was not part of the doctor's makeup, especially when he scented trouble in the air. And right now, trouble was as clear as the sight of the restive Vulcan before him.

He glanced at the chair at Spock's side. "Mind if I sit down?"

The question received no reply. McCoy let it roll right off his back. He sat down anyway. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on the table. For a moment, they stared at one another in silence. Then Spock turned away and began typing a long, mathematical equation onto the screen. "Doctor," he intoned, his voice flat. "I do not mean to appear rude, but I must get back to my work."

"Feel like telling me what's bothering you?"

The long fingers froze on the terminal board. But the Vulcan did not look up at him.

McCoy touched him on the arm. Spock's muscles were wound so tightly that they felt like metal chains beneath the skin. Oh lord. What have we got here?

"Come on," he coaxed, his voice carefully casual. "Whatever it is, I'm here to listen. Believe me, half the people on board this ship treat me like a father confessor. There's nothing I haven't heard before." He paused. "And anything you tell me will, of course, be kept strictly confidential."

The Vulcan pulled away from his touch. Even though a blind man could have seen his agitation, he was obviously dismayed that McCoy was aware of it. His expression darkened and he turned back to give the doctor a look that would melt steel. "Leave me alone," he growled.

When all else fails, go for the intimidation approach, McCoy thought wryly, completely unmoved by the ominous stare. Well, it won't flush with me, you thick-headed Vulcan. You might intimidate everyone else on board this ship, but you sure as hell don't intimidate me.

The forbidding look intensified, took on a definitely sinister appearance. Seeing that his approach was going nowhere, was only making Spock pull further away from him, McCoy abruptly decided on a change of tactics. "Does this have anything to do with Jim?"

Silly question. Of course it had something to do with Jim. Except in the rare instances when Spock was not in his right mind, the only time he ever showed emotional stress was when the captain was lying in the sickbay or lost on some godforsaken planet somewhere.

Dark eyes widened, filled with anxiety. Spock shook his head. "No."

And now a lie no less, McCoy thought in alarm. You are in a bad way, aren't you. Haven't seen you this worked up since Jim nearly died from that gunshot wound on Hinsor VI.

The thought made his heart stop. "Spock," he said softly, repressing an inward surge of fear. "Is there something wrong with Jim that he's not telling me?"

Spock almost smiled at the words. "No, Doctor. It is nothing of that nature. The captain is not...directly involved."

Well, thank god for that. But it still brings us back to the same question, doesn't it? "Then what?"

"Please, let it go. The captain is not affected by it. It is something he will never know."

There was such sorrow in the Vulcan's voice that it nearly broke McCoy's heart. The last thing in this universe he could do right now was let it go. He softened his voice. "Spock, please. Talk to me."

"It is...a personal matter."

Great. That tells me absolutely nothing. "What kind of a personal matter?" he persisted.

"A personal matter."

Perhaps it was the anguish in the low voice when Spock said those two words, the hundred underlying thoughts that were left unspoken, the enormous, broken-hearted misery that seemed to fill the very air around them. Perhaps it was nothing more than his own doctor's instincts. But, whatever it was, McCoy suddenly knew exactly what the Vulcan meant.

Unconsciously, he pulled his hand away and let it fall to his lap, his mind, for an instant, completely, totally blank. Then, gathering his wits about him again, he realized that the disclosure should not, in truth, have surprised him. He had heard rumors for years, whispers in the corners of Starfleet Command Headquarters, innuendoes at social functions, that the relationship between the two men was more than one of friendship. They were, it was true, together much of the time. There was an empathy, a chemistry between them that was undeniable. But no one had ever given any credence to the scurrilous gossip. Certainly the captain didn't. McCoy recalled that once he had even made a veiled joke about it.

But, looking into those suddenly very-human eyes, the doctor knew that the rumors had, at least in part, been true. How long Spock had loved the captain as more than just a friend, he could only guess. Why the emotions had suddenly burst to the fore was also a mystery although he suspected that it had something to do with the loss of those men on Acharias III.

But, for whatever reason, they were evidently out now and, just as obviously, Spock was having great difficulty controlling them. The vacant stare of five minutes ago told McCoy that all too clearly.

Reaching out, he laid his hand once again across the Vulcan's rigid arm, a hundred thoughts flashing through his mind at once, the prime of which was also the most simple. Don't try to control it. Give it a shot. Go to the captain and tell him. This was, after all, the twenty-third century. Starfleet Command was known to frown on such things, but male bondings were hardly unknown, even among the upper echelons. And if they didn't like it, to hell with them. The worst they could do was tie up your request in red tape for a while.

Spock lowered his head. "It is not the reaction of Starfleet Command that troubles me, Doctor," he whispered, showing a rare lack of telepathic control. Or awareness that he had even been picking up on McCoy's thoughts, for that matter. "I have done private research on the matter. Although the situation could prove awkward, it would pose no insurmountable obstacles."

McCoy quirked an eyebrow at the uncharacteristic admission, but said nothing.

Spock hesitated, as if realizing the lapse. After a few moments, he apparently decided it made no difference and began to speak again. "I have given the subject much consideration. From all angles. It simply cannot work--for personal, not professional reasons. The captain has always shown a marked preference for the female sex. I have found no reasons whatsoever to conclude that this sexual orientation will change. And I will not endanger our friendship over something which cannot succeed."

"You don't know that, Spock."

The Vulcan glanced up at him, his eyes filled with sorrow. "Yes, Doctor, I do."

The two men looked at one another in silence for nearly thirty seconds. Spock was the first to break eye contact. He turned away and began typing again. McCoy could see his fingers shake. Dear god, Spock, he thought in dismay. You're letting this tear you apart without even giving it--or Jim--a chance.

The Vulcan faltered, seemed almost to cringe for an instant. McCoy was quick to press his advantage. "Listen to me," he said, a faint pleading tone to his voice. "If there's one thing in this universe that I know it's that Jim loves you..."

"As a friend, perhaps. Nothing more."

How in the hell can you say that? I've seen the way his face changes when he looks at you. Don't tell me you haven't seen it too. At least a half a million times.

The Vulcan plainly heard the unspoken comments. He turned away and a deep stillness fell between them once again. Somewhat to McCoy's surprise, Spock was the first to break that, too. "It was a misunderstanding on my part," he said, his voice scarcely above a whisper. "And perhaps yours as well. There is friendship between us. A deep friendship perhaps, but that is all."

Spock paused, clearly expecting him to make a response. Or at least leave him in peace. When he didn't do either, the Vulcan reluctantly spoke again. "I appreciate your concern, Doctor. Please believe that. However, I have reconciled the matter in my own mind and assure you that I shall be quite all right."

Reconciled, McCoy thought angrily. Like hell you have. You've done what you always do. Shoved it into some black hole somewhere in that head of yours and hope to hell it'll go away if you hold out long enough.

Spock glanced back to meet McCoy's gaze. "Please, Doctor," he muttered. "I realize that your intentions are for the best. But I have made my decision and ask that you respect it. Grant me my own..."

He stopped, seeing the troubled look that flashed across the doctor's face. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he turned back to his monitor once again.

McCoy studied the angular profile, the words Spock had left unspoken weaving through his mind nevertheless. A stinging ache in his consciousness, like so many of the other unnecessary cruelties he had flung at his friend over the course of the years, the scene was as clear in his mind as if it had happened yesterday. The bitter words, as if Spock were cheating him by offering to die in his place. The searing glare. The way his hand had slammed against the hanger door lock. The Vulcan's soft, saddened voice, '...employ one of your own superstitions. Wish me luck...wish me luck...wish me luck.' Gods, he would have given a year of his life to have been able to relive that day.

But, of course, he couldn't. What he could do, however, was keep from causing his gentle companion any further pain. Wiping the grimness from his expression, he cleared his throat. Spock ignored him. He tried again. This time, the Vulcan looked up. "All right," he said softly. "If that's the way you want it, the subject is closed. I won't mention it again." Although if it were up to me, I'd hunt down the captain this very minute and tell him every blessed thing.

Dark eyes narrowed, but Spock said nothing. McCoy rose to his feet. Despite the thought, he knew that he wouldn't betray the Vulcan's confidence, just as he wouldn't badger him into changing his mind. He had broached the subject and Spock had said no. And that was that.

He managed a weak grin. "Care to come to my quarters and have a brandy?"

The faintest trace of a smile appeared. But Spock shook his head. "No, thank you, Doctor. I would prefer to remain here and continue my work."

You mean lose yourself in your work. McCoy kept the unspoken words to himself, not that it mattered. Spock was picking up on every one of his thoughts anyway. "Okay. Okay. But anytime you feel like talking...about anything at all, feel free to stop down. Day or night."

He began to walk away. The Vulcan's voice stopped him. "Doctor?"

He glanced back.

"Thank you."

For what. Hell, I didn't do a damned thing. He smiled sadly, keeping that thought to himself also. "Sure, Spock. See you later."

Turning back to face the door, he walked slowly from the room, feeling about as helpless as he ever had in his life.

***

Leonard McCoy didn't realize it, but in his harsh indictment of his efforts to help his friend, he had been very wrong. He had helped him, although not in the way he intended. In fact, he had not only helped Spock, he had helped every person on the Enterprise, had helped the people of a planet eight parsecs away. In the long run, by his compassionate visit